


Nature of My Game

by TinyRubySeeds (S_Kassandra180)



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse, Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Death, Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Shenanigans, Destruction, I mean don't tell me you wouldn't see them messing stuff up if they ever were stuck together, It's American Horror Story and Supernatural yo, Language, M/M, Mention of solo (male) masturbation, Mentions of Blood/Gore/Dismemberment, Slight Knife Kink, Violence, souls get barbequed… That stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Kassandra180/pseuds/TinyRubySeeds
Summary: Not all partnerships start smoothly, as former Hunter turned Knight of Hell Dean Winchester and Antichrist and Son of Satan Michael Langdon can tell you...Inspired by a few asks and Convos' on Tumblr.





	Nature of My Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I did on my birthday. 
> 
> I posted strange crossovers with (not so much if you think about it) crack ships. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea but… Damn do I like this crazy thing and I hope you guys will like it too! Especially my fellow AHS & SPN lovers. Oh! This has nothing to do with Sinister Kid BTW and don't worry I'm working on that soon!

 

 

It was the first time in the past few minutes that the bar had fallen silent. There was an almost eerie quality to it after the carnage of a few moments ago, save for the terrible wet fleshy smacking sounds that rang over and over of the records clicking and changing in the jukebox in the corner. Soon that terrible sound went silent as the jukebox hummed.

A silence that was almost ringing between the two men (left alive) in the bar. The one closest to the jukebox surveyed his ruined clothes (he may have worn a red velvet dinner jacket it but blood had a tendency to dry to a disgusting dark brown if not washed) before looking to the bar around them.

Now, he hadn’t been keen on coming here in the first place. Had sighed and rolled his eyes when his companion insisted on dragging him into this place that stank like stale beer and made his stomach turn when seeing some over greased concoction that seemed to coat his veins just looking at it. But now…

It was filled with the scent of blood as patrons everywhere around them were slaughtered. Blood, a few limbs, and viscera covering the floor mixing with the bar peanuts and odd bits of silverware. Normally he didn’t mind the sight and smell of destruction, in fact, he would have dared said it was an improvement but right now was not the time to admire the chaos. This would be a problem soon enough.

“Was that _really_ necessary?" He asked suddenly; voice silky, cool and calm above the notes that were starting to filter from the jukebox.

He could hear the drums of a famous band his caregiver (dear sweet black-hearted Ms. Mead, long gone) had once loved. He could hear the slight accent from the singer even as he sang the word he had once sung with her as a child.

_“...Please allow me to introduce myself_

_I’m a man of wealth and taste_

_Been around for a long, long year_

_Stole many a man’s soul to waste…”_

Maybe later the Antichrist, Michael Langdon, would chuckle at the irony that of all songs it was _this one_ that the old jukebox decided to ring out and sing. Maybe later he would admit it was rather amusing that amidst the carnage of the bar that the jukebox was still rather untouched, as though it were a living thing thinking that playing that song would save it from any further damage save for the splatters of blood and gore (Seriously, that idiot had it coming thinking he could aim a shotgun at them both and that one of them wouldn't break his bones, snap tendons, before tearing his heart out). All of it would be funny _later_. Right now…  Annoyance reigned supreme. It gleamed in his icy blue gaze, drew taunt in the line of his shoulders and the grip of his hands tightly behind his back, and all over his handsome (albeit it slightly blood splattered) features framed in ginger blonde hair.

He had a reason to be annoyed, even angry. After all, this bar had been full of _hunters_ before they had walked in and it was the blood, guts, and limbs of _hunters_ that decorated it now. It had just taken one of them saying the wrong thing for his companion to finally explode. A companion who was already of short temper thanks to the ancient mark branded on his arm.

A companion was currently on the floor, resting slightly from pounding the remnants of blood, bone, and gore into the dark hardwood floor. Michael had no time to marvel at how, a few moments ago, that had been some poor bastard who had made the mistake of trying to make a break for it out of his hiding spot. Needless to say, he didn’t stand a chance when pitted with Dean Winchester. The man’s green eyes turning jet black before he all but threw himself at him as soon as Michael shouted at the former hunter to stop him ( _Good to see he can follow orders when it suits him,_ The Antichrist thought grudgingly).

There was a terrible dark chuckle answered Michael’s question, as Dean looked up. The once hunter was smeared with more blood than Michael was. It was all over his face, across the stubble of his chin, his black shirt, and a red button up, even starting to stain his blue jeans, and it certainly covered the ancient jawbone fashion into a blade, the first blade in fact, in the man’s hand. It seemed oddly fitting in a way, the once hunter now Knight of Hell didn’t have the Antichrist’s distaste for getting his hand dirty.

 _No… He lives for it_ , Michael thought.

_He was born for it._

"Nah but admit it, Princess," Dean said easily, a terrible grin crossing his face. “It was fun as hell.”

Michael felt his jaw tighten feeling a flash of anger in his gut.  He couldn’t allow himself to think of how it had been a physical effort to pull his eyes from the newly turned demon as he watched him work. Even as a hunter, the older Winchester was something to behold. Movements sharp, precise, that mark of a warrior trained to hunt monsters But bearing the Mark of Cain…Dean turned killing into an art form. A primal dance that was hard to pull away from even after the newly turned Knight of Hell just fucked Michael’s plan off into the sunset.

Michael couldn’t let himself think of how this awful, horrifying, utterly _beautiful_ being was how Dean was supposed to be. Nor could he allow himself to think of how the hunter’s dirty blonde hair was just a little too mussed from its normal look and he fought the itch in his hand to correct it. But he couldn’t ignore the simple fact that blood on the other man’s face seemed to bring out the deeper hazel hues hidden in his sage colored eyes.

Dean meanwhile couldn’t help but watch as Michael sighed, starting to pace the room, appraising the damage. If Dean didn’t hear it in the other’s voice he could see it clearly from how the blonde was looking over the carnage, eyes lingering  in disdain on bodies Dean knew he could add to his ever-growing kill count thanks to the mark:

Michael wasn’t happy.

Of course, he wasn’t, this wasn’t the way he liked to do things, hadn’t been since before when Dean was the hunter. Of course, it would be the same when the tables had been turned.

 _Dickhead Antichrist is such a damn hypocrite,_ Dean thought as he wiped the blood off his face, smearing it slightly but it was enough to get rid of that sticky feeling as it was starting to dry.

A few of these bodies had their hearts torn clean out, the blood belonging to them had trickled down Michael’s plump lips in a way that had made it really damn hard to focus even with the mark screaming in his veins, _Kill Kill Kill!_ Not to mention the pile of ash that was at the corner of the bar that had once been of the fuckers who thought an exorcism would do anything other than burn their ears.

He fixed the Antichrist, his so-called lord, with a glare. Trying not to notice how Michael seemed to blaze even brighter when he was angry. Not for the first time… Dean wondered what the hell was wrong with him after all… It was so very hard to look away even if he wanted to.

_Stupid damned prince..._

"What the hell is wrong now, Lestat?" The knight of hell finally snorted after a few beats getting to his feet once more.

That little dig was one the former hunter turned knight knew Michael hated. Dean didn’t want to give the other the satisfaction of thinking he cared or anything in the like (because _he didn’t damn it_ ), but he was pretty done with this silent treatment. Only watching Michael paced the room doing… Well, whatever weird demonic shit he was doing. Was he destroying their souls? Or did he have to burn them for that? Did have to eat their hearts? Who knows?

“Oh, _whatever_ gave you the idea something was _wrong_?” Michael replied coolly without missing a beat.

_Smart ass._

Dean fixed him with one of the looks he had learned from watching his once little brother ( _once…_ it was easy to say _once_ now… Demon’s didn’t have family at least that’s what he told himself). The phrase _that's bullshit_ showing on every feature.

“Cause you’re acting like a little bitch, _Mikey_ .” He said with a smirk (if Michael hated being referred to as an Anne Rice vampire he _despised_ that nickname even more). “You can't tell me you didn't like every damn minute of that. Here I was thinking you were a better liar than that.”

Michael stopped in his pacing, turning to Dean. His face was expressionless but his eyes… Dean wasn’t sure if it was because of the slight trace of sunset crimson (how the hell Michael could wear makeup and look _like that_ while doing it was always beyond Dean) or the blood splatter on his face but his eyes seemed to shine. Even in the dim light of this shitty bar.

“ _I’m_ the one acting like a ‘little bitch’?” The Antichrist snapped. “Odd… _I_ wasn’t the one who fucking _started_ this _temper tantrum_ because of something some Neanderthal with half a brain said.”

The smirk on the demon’s face sunk into a dirty look as something deep within him whimpered at Michael’s tone. _Not this crap again,_ Dean thought. Hating the strange instinct he had developed since waking to serve the Son of Satan before him. _Damn Knights of Hell and their damn Knightley bullshit._

“Dick was asking for it,” Dean said with a shrug.

“Oh?” Michael said turning to him full. “And he told you this, did he? Got on his knees as _begged_ you to gut him when you insisted going to the bar after his outburst earlier? I must have missed that as you were suddenly breaking a bottle over his head, as I had made it very _clear_ to you to leave it _alone_.”

The knight shrugged.

“Didn’t see you doing anything about it,” Dean said. “You think I'm gonna let some backwater bitch say that crap to me?”

 _Or say that crap to you_ , a terrible little thought in Dean’s mind added but he locked that up. Not wanting to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

Meanwhile, Michael had fixed his knight with a glare that Dean half wondered if would cause him to burst into flames for a moment. _He's probably still thinking about it so… Fuck it._

“You do realize I just had to whisper in the right ear and I wouldn’t have _had_ to?” Michael said coldly. “There were some here who were thinking of getting revenge for a failed hunt he had been on and it wouldn't have taken much for them to seek it.”

“Cause that wouldn’t have taken too damn long.” Dean snorted.

“It certainly wouldn’t have caused the _entire bar_ to react when you decided to flash black eyes when started slamming his head against the bar repeatedly. Causing us to kill every one of them when I had made it _very clear_ we were trying to keep a low profile-.”

“Yeah but that was _awesome_ and you know it.”

“ _Dean.._.” Michael said as though he were dealing with an idiot child, something that grated on Dean’s nerves a bit up there with that annoying look on his face.

The knight tried not to think of how Michael hadn't ever called him that before. By his name. It was always _Winchester, Hunter,_ or (quite recently) _Knight_ or something like that. As if Dean were just another piece in the Antichrist’s game. This was probably the first time that silky voice had said it ( _his_ name, _his)_ and something in him… Wanted to hear Michael say it just a few more times.  

Just a few more.

_Just one more._

“... Must I remind you _again_ of what we are _trying_ to do now that I have reclaimed the throne?” Michael continued.

Dean rolled his eyes, that feeling dashed with the reminder of the plan. Of course, he knew about the damn plan as Michael had all but beaten him over the head with that shit.

“We’re trying to take over hell, trying to get rid of the trash Crowley left behind, trying to start the Apocalypse up again,” Dean said, mimicking the Antichrist’s tone mockingly. “Blah be-blah blah blah.”

Dean could see a tick in Michael’s facade as he simplified this grand elaborate plan to just a few sentences. It was a small chink in the armor of Lucifer’s Kid but it was fun to see nonetheless. Just as he was about to try to put another chink in that armor, suddenly the Antichrist spoke.   

“We’re trying to _avoid_ the attention of those who would seek to thwart us before we set out what I was born to do… _Righteous Man_ ,” Michael replied.

Dean didn't just hear those two words, he _felt_ them. Felt them as strong as the knife in his hand, tasted them as clear as the blood he felt on his tongue, heard them as clearly as the souls he had ripped apart what felt like a lifetime ago some days and felt like yesterday during others. He hadn't been called that in years but… Hearing it was like kicking a Pandora’s box of pain open, tearing open a scar that was barely healed.

Dean fixed Michael with an angry glare. The urge to attack starting to flicker in his veins.

“Or… Does something in you want us to fail?” Michael lilted suddenly

“Shut up.” Dean snapped.

The Mark branded on his arm started to ache as it started to awaken once more.

“It does, doesn’t it? You want them to find us, don’t you? That’s why you are not hiding it anymore aren’t you?”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

Dean could see red glowing at the edge of his vision. Knight or no, the mark was craving blood.

“After all… Any word of you would bring your beloved little brother running now, won’t it… Dean? Do you think they would save you from what you have become? What you _are?_ Your brother and that sweet little angel friend of yours… What were their names again? Castiel and Sa-.”

Michael didn't finish as, at that moment, Dean crossed the room in what seemed to be just a few steps. The hand without the blade going right to Michael’s throat, finger’s clenching. Instinctively the Antichrist’s arm raised and Dean felt the sharp edge of a blade Michael had claimed in the fray. In the hands of a normal human, it would be an annoying little pain in Michael’s hands though...

The hunter turned demon’s eyes locked onto the Antichrist’s. Sage burning onto cerulean. A war of instincts clashing in his mind. One crying _KILL KILL KILL_ as the other screamed _NOT HIM NOT HIM NOT HIM._ Dean wanted to scream above the din in his seemingly empty soul for both of them to shut up but… He knew it was useless

“Ya gonna keep going, Princess?” The knight said with a terrible smile despite hating this, eye’s flashing black, raising the first blade as though to stab the man before him through the heart.

It would probably do nothing to Michael, it might do everything, but Dean was having trouble caring even though something in him knew he wouldn't be able to do it. Something would stop him before he tried. Something always did.

“I’m doing this cause I _like_ doing it. You may be my king or whatever but don’t you think I give a damn about you or your little kingdom. I’m just here cause a regime change sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.”  

To his surprise… Michael didn’t sputter, didn’t choke. Rather his blue eyes seemed to set alight, a slight smirk crossing his face for the first time since Dean had insisted that they go into this small hole in the wall bar. Dean wondered what it said about him that his black heart seemed to stop for a moment when he noticed it. Before he had the sense of danger that followed Michael like a shadow.

“Really?” Michael managed to get out, voice breathy, the sound going up Dean’s spine.

_What-?_

“Is that what you are still are telling yourself, Dean, when you follow me? So I am to take that staring you have been doing as nothing more than _forced devotion_ to your lord then? Defending him when someone slanders his name even among the unwashed masses...”

That grin fell away from the former hunter’s face, replaced by an angry glare.

 _Damn it_ … He had thought he was being so careful sneaking glances when he could of the lithe man before him. Had thought the man was so focused on his plans of world destruction. Had thought he beat the bastard (the one who started all of this shit) into a pulp before Michael had heard what he had said to Dean… _About him_.

Dean really couldn’t be blamed for the way he was drawn to the man before him… Michael was far too damn handsome for his own good. The hunter had thought so when they first met the Son of Lucifer not long after his father had risen, and as a demon, as a _Knight,_ it was far far worse.

Every awareness of him was heightened, maybe because Knights of Hell were created to serve their lord and thereby his son but it was true all the same. Dean could hear every sweet breath that left the Antichrist’s too soft lips, could feel the silky waves of hair when the blonde would pull those locks  back on occasion, could almost sense that too hot skin when his lord would change in their shared room (because of course, they had to share a fucking room as something in him felt the need to protect Michael even though he had the feeling Michael didn’t need protecting). Even he knew choking Michael like this wouldn’t do anything to him other than annoy him…

And give Dean an excuse to touch that golden sun-kissed skin that he had craved touching since the day they met.

Dean had hoped that Michael was done. That he wouldn’t keep digging. He couldn't know, could he? No, he couldn't, Dean was careful. Besides, Michael may have that night vision of the soul but his soul was too corrupted and black too see, right? Dean’s answer came in the way that smirk became a full-blown smile.

“... Not the sounds I have heard you make the shower when you think I’ve gone or when you think I'm asleep. When you _moan_ my name… Should I call them false prayers of thanks to your savior?”

The blade almost tumbled from Dean’s hands in shock.

_Son of a bitch!_

Dean jerked his hand away from the man’s throat as if Michael had burned him, stumbling back from the Antichrist snarling as if the other man had struck him. Yet he didn’t have an excuse for that one ready. Wasn’t prepared. Rather he was kicking himself.

He had _sworn_ he had been quiet.

Had _sworn_ that Michael had gone.

 _Dean you dumbass,_ He thought. Self-hate was an old friend of his… Even as a demon. And he could taste its bitterness. He went to tear and stalk away when he felt something on his cheek. Long clever ringed fingers tracing the stubble on his face. It’s strange… But… The dance of those fingers across his face… They felt like home.

He heard Michael chuckle and looked up to see the devil’s smile… Yet there was something in it. Something that made something in him he thought was dead with his humanity stop.

Something _fond,_ something almost sweet _…_ Something that _blazed_ and Dean suddenly had the urge to burn.

Michael was suddenly stepping closer and closer into his space. The scent of that spicy, musky cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood washing over him. Dean was finding hard to breath as the Antichrist started to trace down his chest with the edge of the knife. As the fingers on his cheek started to leave scorching paths up his jaw, going to the small hairs on the back of his neck. A bit of tenderness followed by the threat of pain. Yet Dean had a feeling in Michael’s hands… It would be like heaven and hell rolled into one.

Michael was close now, so close that Dean could feel the heat of him. And the former hunter could feel his breath catch when the Antichrist forced his head down slightly. Dean's eyes slid closed as he could feel the Michaels breath dance across his lips, felt his nose nudge against his own.

“Pity you insist on being a _fucking_ thorn in _my side_ as your false lord would have been tempted to answer those cries for salvation.”

Dean's eyes snapped open, seeing that smug smile on Michael’s face.

“You _son of a-!”_

“Now now Dean, you went against my wishes. Do you really think I would _reward_ such misbehavior?” Michael said, pulling his hand away. “Perhaps you will do well to remember. In the meantime do insist that if you _must_ attack like a rabid wolf you do so when the occasion calls for it. Regardless of how... Amusing it is to see a wolf tear apart the sheep.”

Dean was tempted to snap back, tempted to grab that hand and put it back on his face, when he noticed Michael’s too blue eyes lingering on his own lips. Unconsciously, he couldn’t help but wet them, tasting the lingering bits of beer and whiskey. Trying not to wonder if Michael’s would taste like that red wine he had ordered (cause Michael _would_ order wine in a dive bar, the high and mighty _prick_ ) or the blood of those hearts he had taken bites out of like candy or a mixture of the two. Something in Dean craved to find out but knew he couldn’t…

Not until his lord gave him leave. Although he didn’t give a shit about everything else Michael spouted or believed in or everything else… This was something that would be so much sweeter when he did.

_And damn am I going to make that little shit pay for it when I fucking get it._

He swore he saw a spark in Michael’s eyes at that thought but it faded as soon as he tried to focus on it.

“Come,” Michael said. “We have work to do.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean muttered.

The knight glanced over to the jukebox, the telltale clicking sounds making it clear it was changing records once more.

“Actually hang on…”

Dean put the First Blade in his belt as he strode over to the jukebox, he reached over grabbing a nearby… unbroken chair (probably one of the few in the whole place), a grin crossing his face as the first few notes of a new song rang out.

He could hear Michael sigh, could feel the Antichrist roll his eyes. He was betting through that the other man was probably eyeing him, could almost feel it with his demonic senses like he could sense everything to do with his lord. And for some reason, he wanted Michael to watch.

Dean pulled the chair close, pulling it so it would be easy to lift up and then…

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_

The music became disjointed, offkey with a loud sound of metal twisting, glass breaking, wood cracking as Dean took the chair to the jukebox. The sound of the new song sounding terribly discordant and broken.

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_

Soon the jukebox was sputtering.

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_

_Wham!_

And with a few crackles and a few fading notes… The jukebox died.

“Do you feel better now?” Michael said with a chuckle.

“Oh yeah, that one from the Stones was the only decent song on that damn thing. I looked, everything else sucked. Lead on boss.”

 _Cause if you insist on being a tease then I'm gonna check out that ass of yours._ Dean thought.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Michael could read minds as he tilted his head slightly. But he shook his head and led them out of the bar nonetheless as suddenly flames erupted behind them the scent of burning cloth, wood, flesh, and alcohol following them as they made their way to the door.

As they did Dean couldn’t help but think, _Maybe this pain in the ass Antichrist ain't too bad after all_. And Dean could swear he caught Michael trying to hide a smile as they stepped into the night.

 

_Fin_

 


End file.
